


Palm Springs

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Post-Series, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you find yourself in the strangest place. And sometimes you find something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palm Springs

Rodney finally tracked Sheppard down in Palm Springs, California, of all places, even though Sheppard probably thought he was being tricky, what with the ticket reading San Diego, and the car and hotel booked using some old, aliased credit card of Sheppard's that had been moldering, unused but still active during all their years in Pegasus.

John Smallberry, indeed.

It had been a crappy six months in San Francisco waiting for the IOA to pull their heads out of their collective ass, made crappier by Teyla's return to Pegasus via the _Daedalus_ a month in. And the last three weeks, well, had been unbearable since Jennifer—

Rodney didn't want to think about it.

Sheppard blithely having disappeared before the big Relationship Meltdown on his accumulated furlough—without so much as a by-your-leave—was terrible, _reprehensible,_ best friend behavior, and Rodney was here to tell him so; unannounced, uninvited and unwelcome as Rodney might be.

Also, he had as much, if not more, leave accumulated than Sheppard did, and it wasn't as if any universe-shattering crises were going to come up while here on Earth; or, at least if there were, the _Daedalus_ was back now and available to extract them on a moment's notice, so Rodney felt justified in being a little selfish. The circumstances certainly warranted it.

And didn't he deserve some time in a vacation paradise himself? Hadn't he spent five years saving multiple planets—nay, _two_ entire galaxies—from the evil clutches of various, well, _evils_ and catastrophes and whatnot?

All of which explained why he was here in this disco ball-laden night club hunting down Sheppard. And certainly Sheppard's hedonistic, devil-may-care, lazy-hipped approach to self-gratification explained the thirty-something brunette hanging off his chest playing tonsil-hockey with him while simultaneously trying to gyrate to the disturbingly retro 80s New Wave blasting from the too-powerful amplifiers stationed at eight foot intervals around the room.

It did _not_ , however, explain the slim blond man plastered against Sheppard's back, hips rocking his groin against Sheppard's ass while his hands did unspeakable and unknowable things at Sheppard's waist.

And Sheppard just lazed between them, swaying side to side, taking her kisses, his arms stretching to draw the blond man closer so they all made an erotic trio of motion under the strobing disco lights. It was infuriating, seeing Sheppard like this—placid and accepting of other people's casual, invasive touches, _encouraging_ them.

And since when was Sheppard interested in men?

The music changed to a more energetic song and the three broke apart to dance facing each other, grinning widely. Heart beating hard, aware he might be seen at any moment, Rodney stepped back toward the exit, his hand still on the altered LSD in his pocket. He could always follow them when they left, or track Sheppard wherever he ended up; and really, considering Sheppard's off-world record, someone had to look out for the man. He might get rolled by these floozies, who could very well be working him as a mark. Rodney didn't even know if Sheppard was armed.

Obviously, Rodney had to put a stop to this.

It was cooler by the exit, but Rodney's beer was growing warm and stale. He'd lost sight of Sheppard a few times; once when he went to the bar, and the second time when he went to the bathroom, but he always reappeared with the same couple, dancing too close, the lights gleaming on his sweaty neck and shiny black shirt. Rodney lost sight of him again and was searching for him when he saw all three of them by the coat check and, hurriedly putting down his beer, Rodney pushed past the small crowd at the entrance and went outside to lie in wait.

The two floozies were laughing when they came out, but Sheppard's eyes were scoping out the parking lot, left and then right, and he stiffened, a complicated expression flitting over his face, when he saw Rodney hiding in the shadows by a burned out lamp post. Rodney sketched a lame little half-wave and then tucked his hand back into his pocket.

Sheppard approached him quickly, his two partners in crime shooting each other looks behind his back.

"Rodney," Sheppard drawled in the drawliest drawl Rodney had ever heard out of the man. "What brings you down here to Palm Springs?"

Rodney swallowed; Sheppard looked furious. Not that it showed much, but Sheppard's jaw usually didn't bulge quite so much unless Wraith were involved.

"Just, ah, taking a little vacation. I heard the weather is nice down here. Who are your friends?" Rodney smirked pointedly at the blond.

Deep down, Rodney had to admit he'd hoping for an ashamed, defensive reaction, but he was disappointed. In fact, Sheppard let his companions catch up to him and raised his arms a little. They both slotted into Sheppard's sides like they belonged there, causing a weird twinge in Rodney's chest.

"This is Lacey and Tom. Guys, this is my pal, Rodney." John shot Rodney a wry look. "Apparently, he just happened to be in town."

"Hi, Rodney," Lacey said. Her voice was a husky contralto. Tom offered his hand, and Rodney shook it automatically, his eyes catching Sheppard's narrow glance.

"Say, where are you staying, Rodney?" came Sheppard's too casual question.

"I'm at the Radisson." Rodney almost added, _Colonel,_ but stopped himself just in time.

"What a coincidence," Sheppard said ironically. He hesitated. "Maybe I'll see you there later." He turned to Lacey. "You guys ready to go?"

"Oh, yeah." Lacey laid her head on Sheppard's shoulder, her long hair tumbling over his black shirt.

"You tired, sweetheart?"

She shook her head, and Sheppard and Tom both laughed a little, dirty laughs that made Rodney take a step backward, his stomach tightening. He suddenly saw, like a mission going bad, just how far he'd stepped over the line. Sheppard might not forgive him for this.

"Well, I'll just—I'll see you later, Co—John. Bye, Tom, Lacey."

"Bye, Rodney." Sheppard held his eyes for a moment, his expression unreadable, before giving him a nod. Then they all turned and walked away, leaving Rodney alone.

God, he'd really fucked up.

:::

Driving back to the hotel, though, Rodney found himself growing more and more angry. It wasn't too much to ask, was it, that a friend should know a friend? That the basics be spoken and understood? Sheppard knew everything about Rodney, from his allergies to his failures to his IQ to his cat's name. He knew about Cadman being in Rodney's head and how she'd slept in the nude with his body, for crying out loud. He knew Rodney had let a little hypochondria ruin his proposal to Katie.

Admittedly, Sheppard had left before the fiasco with Jennifer came to a head, but Rodney was prepared to tell him about that as well. That was why he'd come down here, after all. Only to find Sheppard wasn't who he thought he was.

Rodney couldn't fit this into the equation. It terrified him to try. He wasn't sure he could talk to Sheppard about Jennifer now, about her anger or her tears or her stupid accusations that he'd planned to get drunk and laugh about with John.

Well, the getting drunk part Rodney could accomplish, at least. Thank God for whoever invented mini-bars.

:::

The pounding on the door was in perfect counterpoint with the violent thumping in Rodney's head, a hellish tympanic syncopation that seemed likely to cause a spontaneous implosion of all vascular structures in his cerebrum, or at the very least an ischemic stroke. Rodney scrabbled frantically across the expanse of the mattress hoping to find a stray Wraith stunner or Glock or Zat or _something_ to kill somebody with, but came up empty-handed. Instead, moaning, he rolled to his feet and stumbled in the direction of the door with his eyes still closed and his arms out until he hit the source of the noise.

"What the _fuck_ do you want?" he asked the door.

"Rise and shine, McKay."

"Sheppard. I _will_ kill you. If you don't have coffee, I'll make it slow and painful."

"Aw. I'm really feeling the love, Rodney."

Rodney opened one eye cautiously and slammed it shut again, but not before he caught sight of the general location of the door latch. He fumbled it open and yanked on the door, then stumbled away again toward the bed to sit down.

Sheppard came in, thankfully accompanied by the aroma of fresh coffee. It smelled like French roast. Rodney raised one piteous, begging hand and closed it around a hot paper cup, size large.

"Thank God."

Sheppard didn't say anything in reply. Rodney heard him pulling a chair out and sitting down somewhere over to the side, and then the sound of a newspaper being rattled open as Sheppard sipped his own coffee.

Three quarters of a cup later, Rodney was feeling human enough to open both of his eyes at once.

"Rough night?" Sheppard, of course, was bright eyed and bushy-haired. He was in dark blue jeans and faded red T-shirt, and looked nothing like the slinky, shiny-shirted club-hopper from the evening before.

Rodney made a non-committal sound. "Frankly, I expected _you_ to look a little more exhausted. Colonel."

Sheppard's eyes narrowed, but he smiled. "Me? Nah. I wiped the two of them out. No stamina, these kids." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his smile widening. "Maybe I'll have better luck tonight."

Rodney choked on his coffee. "Jesus!" he spluttered. "I can't believe you! No, seriously! What is it with you? It wasn't enough when it was Priestesses and glowing, Ascended beings and—"

Sheppard's face had gone still. "Don't forget Princesses."

"Right! Of course not! Now you have to work your way through the clubbing population of Palm Springs?"

Sheppard straightened his legs and crossed them at the ankles so that he was slouched low in his chair, his elbow resting on the table, hand idly playing with his cup. He gave Rodney a considering look. "Is that why you came down here? To check up on me? Keep me in line like always?" Sheppard looked away. "Well, think about it just for once before shooting your mouth off. How many times do you figure I've gotten laid since we hit Pegasus, genius? How many times on our _five year mission_?"

Rodney gaped. Then he frowned. Then he worked out the math. Factored in the glowing. Factored it out again, because he wasn't quite sure...then factored it in again, because why not.

Then he gaped again, because, hell. The numbers didn't lie, and five years was a long time, and that was, what? Four times?

Sheppard was pointing at him. "Now, how many times have you had sex with Katie, with Jennifer? With whoever else you got spanky with?"

Rodney looked away. When he looked back again, John was drinking his coffee, a faraway look on his face. Eventually he put down his cup and said. "I came down here because I wanted to blow off a little steam without any repercussions. Atlantis is a goddamned fishbowl—you know that, Rodney. Can't have sex with someone under my command, and what's more, I don't _want_ to. I don't want to send someone off to be killed that I've been with that way."

"That doesn't mean you have to be _alone_. There are plenty of people not under your command."

Sheppard gave him a fake smile. "Sure, right, sure. But I'm not going to leave a string of one night stands in my tiny back yard. Not when I'm the Head Cheese. Now, when someone shows up on Atlantis who's really interested, who interests me, I'll give it a shot. But so far I've been S.O.L. there, Rodney. Unlike you and the rest of my team."

Rodney's stomach clenched hard, and for a second he thought he'd lose the battle with the vague nausea he'd been fighting since he woke up. He took the last sip of his coffee and then got up and took the second coffee Sheppard had brought him and started on that one.

Sitting down across from Sheppard, Rodney said, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you?"

Rodney rolled his eyes.

Sheppard just stared at him steadily.

Rodney felt himself beginning to flush. "Fine. Tell me you...you were...bisexual."

"Wow. I can't imagine why not."

"Just because I hesitated a little doesn't mean I have a problem with it."

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't." Sheppard shrugged. "I have the regs to worry about. I don't tell anyone I work with, Rodney. Don't take it personally."

"Don't take it personally? We're _friends_! I mean, fuck you, Colonel. Just...fuck you. Don't take it _personally_?"

And Sheppard laughed. He laughed, sounding genuinely amused and fond, almost. But a little pissed off, too. "Listen to you, telling me we're friends and calling me Colonel at the same time. You're really a piece of work."

"That's got nothing to do with anything," Rodney said resentfully. "That's just the way we are."

Sheppard leaned forward. "Yeah, it's got everything to do with everything, and it's exactly the way we are." He stopped suddenly, a surprised look on his face, and pulled back.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"No, wait. What does that—"

Sheppard swiped his palm over his mouth. "Look. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but now you know, all right? And I need to know if you can deal, Rodney, because you've got issues."

"What? I don't! It's fine! You—have whatever fun you need to have. I'm not getting in your way."

Sheppard looked skyward, his lower lip pushing up in a thoughtful pout. "So you're saying last night you just happened to get in the mood for some club hopping. Modern English really rocks your socks."

"Okay. I don't have a response for that. Except to say it won't happen again. I _promise_. Now, can we _please_ just forget about all this and eat a greasy room service breakfast and watch television and never speak of it again? I'm good with being in complete denial for the rest of our natural lives if at all possible. That works for me."

Sheppard snorted, and a moment later broke into hoarse laughter, thankfully, and Rodney found himself joining in almost hysterically.

They ordered room service eggs and hash browns and bacon and more coffee, two pots. There were channels and channels of ESPN, which Sheppard clicked through happily before kicking back with his bare feet on the coffee table and his fingers tucked into a gap in his shirt. Rodney did the crossword puzzle and then pulled out his laptop and hooked into the wireless, but he wasn't satisfied enough with the security to do any real work, so he just surfed the net.

He still hadn't told Sheppard about Jennifer, but he couldn't now—wasn't sure when he would be comfortable doing so. There was too much unsettled between them.

In the afternoon, Sheppard convinced him to come out of the air-conditioned cool into the blanketing heat of the desert.

"People don't come to Palm Springs to just sit in their chilly hotel rooms, McKay," Sheppard said, pushing him annoyingly between the shoulder blades toward the hotel lobby doors.

"Oh, and I suppose they come to have all the moisture sucked from their lungs into the desert air," Rodney gasped as the dizzying blast of heat hit his face.

"Actually," John popped on his aviators, "they're here to get something they can't find anywhere else." He gave Rodney one arched eyebrow and then headed down the path that curved along the side of the hotel.

So, Rodney ended up sitting poolside with his laptop under an umbrella and watching Sheppard do lap after lap in short black swim trunks, his legs and arms churning smoothly through the crystal blue water. At some point, John reached the end of the pool and did a kick-push maneuver that lifted him up over the lip and gracefully out of the water, and some guy smiled appreciatively and came over to chat him up.

Rodney was so used to seeing Sheppard's closed off body language at the approach of any strange male that he was caught by surprise when the reverse happened; when Sheppard smiled back, open and friendly, his shoulders describing a welcoming angle. Rodney could practically hear what Sheppard was saying— _Yeah, I love the water; I live on the ocean. If I could, I would surf every day and brave man-eating sharks for the privilege of risking skull-destroying ten-foot waves._

There was no excuse for the tightness in Rodney's chest—the same fury that possessed him when he'd seen Sheppard and Chaya returning from a date on one of Atlantis' piers. The only reason Rodney could think of was the same one he'd always told himself—it just didn't seem fair that Sheppard had everything: looks, self-possession, physical ability, charm, and apparently brains as well, when all Rodney had was his vastly superior intellect. But Sheppard himself had told Rodney this morning to do the math, and he had, and the numbers didn't lie. There was no earthly reason to envy Sheppard for his charm, even if it was a man Sheppard was with this time. Even if, even in this, Sheppard had no shame. No shame at all.

Resolutely, Rodney looked back down at his laptop.

:::

Sheppard came by Rodney's lounger and said, "Hey, you okay here for a little while?"

"Hmmm? Yes. Why?"

Sheppard grinned and poked a thumb over his shoulder. "I think I'm about to get lucky, that's why."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"That took all of, what, ten minutes?" Rodney could hear his voice rising.

Sheppard looked wary. "It's that kind of place. So, I'll...see you for dinner? Meet back in your room around six?" There was a challenge there.

"Fine, fine. I'm just doing email, anyway."

"Tell Ronon and Amelia I said 'hi,' and Jennifer too. Say," John frowned and hesitated, suddenly looking more awkward, "when is Jennifer coming down, anyway?"

Rodney kept his eyes trained on the screen. "She's not coming down; she's in Kansas for the week. But I'll send her your regards."

Luckily, at that moment Sheppard's Romeo called out, "You coming, John?" and Sheppard turned away, saying, "I'll see you at six, Rodney."

But Rodney was pretty sure Sheppard would be asking again, and Rodney wasn't sure how he was going to get away without telling the truth.

He'd always been such a crappy liar.

:::

Rodney spent the afternoon hacking into the hotel's wireless router and setting up his own firewall so he could get some work done securely.

At six on the dot, Sheppard came knocking wearing a soft-looking, white button-down shirt, his hair wet again and a lazy grin on his face. Rodney almost hated that grin. If he hadn't already had a two or few beers while waiting, he'd probably have been tempted to snarl something, but instead he just let John in and went back to his desk, leaving him standing in the entryway.

"So, you want to go out tonight? I know some pretty good restaurants."

Rodney looked up. "Actually, I was thinking of ordering up the steak. I've already had a few Molson."

"Yeah? Huh." Sheppard gave him a puzzled grin. "Enjoying your vacation, I guess."

"Yes. It's such a pleasant change when no one is sapping my attention every two minutes with some new and inspired idiocy. I can finally focus on my own work."

Sheppard's eyebrows twisted. "You've been typing drunk? Okay, that's it, McKay. No more laptop privileges for you." He came and leaned over Rodney to grab it, and during the playful struggle that ensued Rodney was assaulted by the mingled scents of John's aftershave, of lingering chlorine and shampoo and a hint of musk that made him dizzy, made him release his grip and pull away slightly. The look Sheppard gave him was narrow and resigned, but he didn't say anything, just smirked and tossed Rodney the remote control.

"Find something fun to watch. I'll order us some steaks."

"Rare, as in bloody, Colonel," Rodney said, regaining his equilibrium.

The steaks came while they argued whether _The Clash of the Titans_ constituted good-stupid or just stupid-stupid entertainment. Rodney was on his fourth or fifth Molson at this point and was leaning toward mechanical owls and Harry Hamlin in a toga as being pretty good in the stupid department, but he wasn't drunk enough to say so out loud. Sheppard was still only on his second beer but was slouched so low in the leather sofa he looked as if he'd melted into it. The lines of his body—the angle of his forearm, and the way the bones of his wrist poked out with the weight of the beer bottle suspended from his fingers; the gliding of his throat muscles under the low light from the lamp when he tilted his head back to swallow—everything about Sheppard conspired to drive Rodney absolutely insane with-with something. With a need to understand _why_ —why this particular man. Why he had everything so very easy, when everyone else had to struggle for the tiniest bit and then screwed up even that little bit so spectacularly.

Rodney muttered just under the sound of the screaming Medusa, "It's so goddamned easy for you, isn't it?"

Sheppard turned his head slightly, his eyes glittering in the flashes coming from the plasma screen. Rodney knew he would just ignore him, just like he'd been ignoring it all along; for years, if Sheppard had even noticed. But maybe he hadn't, and Rodney was eminently tired of that unflappable mask of Sheppard's that only cracked when he wanted to kill someone or when he saw a big bug. Rodney hit mute on the remote and in the sudden silence said, "Which do you like better? Men or women?"

Sheppard just raised an eyebrow.

"I know, I know—you'll tell me it's like comparing apples and oranges—"

There was a moment's pause while a dangerous smile grew on Sheppard's face. Then he said slowly, "Nah. More like comparing apples and apples," his usual drawl turned to molasses. "Tart green apples and, oh-so-sweet pink ladies. It's all sex—I love sucking cock as much as I love eating pussy." The words were almost taunting, as if he were trying to goad Rodney into something.

"That's—I don't—"

Sheppard rode right over him, voice a husky burr, "I love being squeezed by a tight hole, either kind. I love a cock up my ass, yeah—"

Rodney flushed hard.

"—but if a gal's handy with her fingers while she's giving a blow-job, it's just as good...or Lacey—she had a strap-on, you know? Now that was hot. He sucked me while she pegged me, and then I ate her pretty pussy while he fucked my ass. I mean, it's all cool, Rodney." Sheppard toasted him with a smirk and sucked on his beer, seemingly oblivious to the effect his words had on Rodney, of the way they made his pulse pound in his throat, and the way his dick was so hard now, imagining John being fucked, John's cock in Tom's mouth—

"Of course it is. Of course it's all the same for you. It's so goddamned unfair," Rodney whispered, his throat aching. "But I—I never had that much of a taste for apples, to tell you the absolute truth." His voice grated harshly. "I always wanted oranges. But I _can't_. I can't ever—"

Nothing changed—Sheppard was still lounging there, as relaxed as ever, but there was a sudden tension in the room humming like a guy wire. It was all in Sheppard's eyes, locked on his.

"Well, that plain sucks," Sheppard said, his voice far too casual. "Why can't you, Rodney?"

Rodney lifted his beer and drank the rest of it in four long swallows, trying to ease the ache in his throat. When he was done, Sheppard wordlessly handed him another, holding it from the neck so their fingers didn't touch. Rodney pressed the bottle up to his eyelids, one and then the other, to cool them.

The silence was so deep in the room that Rodney shivered. Or maybe it was the unwonted expression on John's face—patient. Understanding.

"Do you have any idea how young and stupid I was when I went to college?" God, Rodney's voice was so thin and shaky, he almost sounded like he had back then. "I was sixteen but had the emotional maturity of a thirteen year-old. A pubescent teenager. I was shy and short and skinny and barely finished with acne, and to make matters worse my scholarship covered room and tuition and board but not enough for clothing and other essentials, which meant I had to earn money on the side by doing stupid shit like typing up freshman comp papers for the dumb jocks on my floor who barely had two brain cells to call their very own. By 'typing up,' I of course mean I took their barely legible and incoherent scribblings and turned them into C-grade papers for them, for which they paid me handsomely. I could have gotten them As, obviously, but that would have been too blatant."

Sheppard was smiling a ghost of a smile, but it was apparent he was only waiting Rodney out. A shiver rolled down Rodney's back; he wasn't sure if he could get this next part out, in spite of all the alcohol drifting through his blood stream. But he wanted to— God, he wanted to get through this somehow. Get it over with at last. He was shaking, horrified at what he was about to say.

Then Sheppard slid his free hand from where it was resting on his chest, down over his abdomen and onto his groin to palm his cock. It was the lewdest thing Rodney had ever seen John do. It made the hair stand up on Rodney's arms; it made him want to sink to his knees between Sheppard's legs. Rodney's eyes snapped back up to meet John's, and he drew a shuddering breath at the expression he saw there, at the permission inherent in his gesture.

"His name was Jim Farantino and he was the JV quarterback, so I guess he was a tad smarter than the other boneheads, because he told me he wanted a little more service for his investment. He wanted me to suck his cock." Rodney swallowed and whispered, "And I wanted to. He was gorgeous and built like you wouldn't believe and had this wicked smile and he said, 'Come on, Rodney, do it,' and put his big hand on the back of my neck, and I just went down like a high school cheerleader on prom night." Rodney cleared his throat and looked away. "I went back again and again, once a week before papers were due. He called me his 'little fairy boy.' It went on all the second half of my freshman year. I couldn't stop, even though I knew he was just using me and thought I was lower than dirt. The next year he moved up to varsity and he told me he couldn't afford to have a little faggot hanging around his new dorm; someone might think _he_ was a fairy by association. But he said he'd hand me off to another JV if I wanted."

The quaver in Rodney's voice had expanded so he could barely finish. "I couldn't have that. I couldn't have that on top of everything else working against me—be the physics department's little fairy freak. I found my first girlfriend two weeks later."

He was practically hyperventilating by the time he was done. He couldn't look at Sheppard. Instead, he panted in the silence, his empty beer bottle clenched so tightly in his fist that his fingers were starting to numb.

He heard a soft, "Rodney," and after a moment he let his eyes track upward and saw the hand that was reaching out to him across the couch, palm up and fingers open and loose. His eyes rose a little further to meet Sheppard's.

Rodney had seen that expression on Sheppard's face one or two times before; it was disconcerting to see it directed his way. There was a part of him that wanted to bask in it, hide in it—the same part that accepted Sheppard's protection off-world every day. But Rodney had learned a lot in the last few years, and part of what he'd learned was he didn't always need Sheppard's gun to protect him anymore. He had his own resources now; his own skills.

And there was something else he wanted—dear God, so _badly_ —and it wasn't a need for sympathy or compassion that had prompted Rodney to tell John the story. He wasn't a short, skinny little geek anymore. And he wanted his reward, goddammit. So, Rodney firmed his jaw and stared hard at Sheppard—saw the sharpening in Sheppard's expression to match, keen eyes assessing him, and the slow, lazy quirking of Sheppard's lips.

Sheppard drew back his hand to the waist of his jeans and casually, oh, so casually, dragged open his button fly with a few, muffled pops. He wasn't wearing any underwear, some part of Rodney's brain noted with dry hysteria; the rest was fully absorbed with the sight of Sheppard gripping his own dick and lazily stroking it to hardness. It was beautiful to watch. It was nasty, and dirty, and Rodney could practically smell the musky scent of John's arousal from where he was sitting.

Then Sheppard stopped moving his hand and squeezed his cock, a perfect bead of pre-cum glistening in the slit, and said softly, "Rodney. Come here and suck me."

Rodney's breath stopped, trapped in the back of his throat, and before he knew it he was on his knees between Sheppard's legs and hovering over his cock, which Sheppard offered to him between slim fingers. Still, Rodney hesitated, looking for something in Sheppard's face, some sign this was all a hilarious joke, perhaps, neatly orchestrated and finally coming to fruition. Time for the big punchline.

But John smiled down at him, an oddly gentle smile. "Just us queers here, Rodney."

With an eager moan he couldn't contain, Rodney lowered his head and touched his tongue to the head of John's cock, tasting the salty pearl of pre-cum before lapping at the crown. It was just as good as he remembered it, the male scent and taste, the plump firmness under his tongue and lips. He groaned and licked it wet and went down until John's fingers fell away and Rodney felt the head pushing against his palate. He sucked in a breath through his nose and angled his neck to go just a little deeper, so the crown threatened the back of his throat, making tears start in his eyes.

Rodney could weep, this was so good, so much of what he wanted, and that it was John, John, John who was letting him do this—who never let him close, who always kept him at arm's distance. The Colonel with his precious two feet of space and tac vest of armor—

A hand touched his head, fingers ruffling through Rodney's hair and then drifting over his temple, and John's thumb gentled the tears from Rodney's cheek while he bobbed and sucked, bobbed and sucked, getting into the familiar rhythm, forgotten a lifetime ago but remembered in dreams. Oh, he'd dreamed about this, his mouth full of cock, sucking and waking to emptiness. But not now, now his mouth was full of thick, beautiful cock, pushing hard against the back of his throat, and John was making soft sounds of pleasure above him, and John's fingers were rubbing through Rodney's hair in affectionate approval.

"That's it, Rodney," John whispered hoarsely. "God, you're so good, so good."

Rodney pulled back and flicked his tongue strongly just under the head, his lips curving over the ridged edge. A moment later John's fingers broke the seal between Rodney's mouth and his cock, pushing him away, and then John was groaning and cupping the head of his cock, coming, stroking himself to completion while Rodney looked on jealously.

"I wanted to finish," Rodney said when John was done and was lying there, panting lightly.

"Not safe. I'm usually a hell of a lot safer than this. You tempt the hell out of me, McKay." John grabbed one of the cloth napkins on the coffee table and cleaned off his hand. "Hey. C'mere."

"What?"

"Just. Come here. Don't make me come down there. I'm wasted." John gave him a lopsided grin, one of the charming ones he used on Woolsey when he wanted to requisition something ridiculous for his marines. An ATV or an amphibious craft. Except there was a vulnerable look to the corners of his eyes that said he expected to be refused—as if Rodney could refuse him anything.

Rodney climbed onto the couch, his knees complaining vociferously that he was a lot older than sixteen these days. A second later John had grabbed him and pulled him onto his lap.

"Hi," John said. And then he palmed Rodney's cheek with the clear intent to kiss him.

No man had ever kissed him. Jim, that asshole, would never have allowed it. That Sheppard—that John wanted to was unprecedented. Rodney froze and saw the hesitation reflected in John's face, overridden a moment later by his usual do-or-die determination, and then soft lips were approaching Rodney's, a warm hand gripping the back of his head for one long second, two, while John's tongue ravaged his mouth sweetly before he pulled back with a last kiss closing Rodney's mouth. It was the hottest kiss Rodney had ever had, brief as it was. It was also the most terrifying statement without words he'd ever received, short of being on the other side of a Wraith stunner.

But John didn't give him any time to think about it. He was already pushing Rodney's shirt up, murmuring, "Get out of this, come on, take it all off," and copping a feel of Rodney's ass when Rodney stood up to strip his pants, which was no fair at all. When Rodney turned around again, naked except for his socks, John had somehow managed to squirm out of his jeans and was lying on his white cotton shirt, looking, in the low light, like some kind of artsy porn shot, the kind they sold in matte, over-sized coffee table books. He was dangling a wrapped condom and a tube of something from one hand.

"I really think you should fuck me now," John said.

Rodney gaped.

A smile flashed across John's face, and he pretended to snap a photo. "I wish I had a shot of that for the dummy wall."

It shocked Rodney out of his daze quickly enough, and he crossed his arms. "I'll have you know it'll be a cold day in hell before I make an appearance on the Wall of Shame."

"Only because the Wall was started way after Arcturus happened."

They could joke about that. They'd survived that. Rodney wondered if they could survive this. He was still too drunk to tell.

"Come on, Rodney, you're losing ground, there," John said, reaching out for him. He brushed the backs of his fingers against Rodney's erection, making him shiver harder and stumble closer. John leaned over and grasped his shaft, holding him steady, and then sucked gently at the end of his cock, lazing his tongue and lips over it before pulling back. He opened the wrapper and rolled the condom on.

Small sounds escaped Rodney's mouth. He was afraid he would come just from the pressure of John's hand, but John squeezed him at the base, the bottom ring of the rubber pinching him and cooling him down. He managed to withstand John slicking him up, and then John settled onto the couch and propped one leg along the back, looking completely unselfconscious as he beckoned Rodney in close.

Rodney knelt, his knees sinking into the buttery soft leather, and reached for the lamp on the end table, suddenly self-conscious of his paleness and his forty year-old body and the ridiculousness of engaging in couch athletics in his drunken condition. He started to turn of the light.

"Don't," John said. "I want to watch you fuck me." Then he hooked his other ankle around Rodney's waist and waited.

"Oh, God," Rodney said, positioning himself, his voice trembling, "don't you need to be—shouldn't we—"

John gave him a too-innocent look. "I'm already loose from earlier; Mark fucked me open for you—"

"You bastard," Rodney moaned and pushed into giving heat, into John's welcoming, tight grasp, watching the way it changed John's eyes, the way the pressure of Rodney's cock made his face go slack and his lashes flutter on his cheeks.

"Yeah, Rodney, come on," John said, tilting his head back and shoving up with his hips, and Rodney was lost, lost, thrusting in, pulling back. John's fingers, still slick with lube, touched his chest and tweaked his nipple, and Rodney surged forward deeper, making John groan.

"Is it good?" Rodney panted. He wanted to know. God, he wanted to know what it felt like to be taken; to be fucked. To love it as much as John seemed to. To be unashamed, wanton, because there was no other word to describe the way John was taking him in, eyes half-closed in bliss, mouth open, ass hungrily clenching around Rodney's cock.

"Yeah, it's fantastic, even when I've already come," John murmured. He pulled Rodney down for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss. "It's the best. I wanna show you—"

"Show me," Rodney moaned. "Show me everything."

John smiled wickedly, his leg pulling him closer, and Rodney felt John's slick fingers sliding between his ass cheeks, pushing inside him obscenely, penetrating him. Rodney froze with a groan and let John's fingers fuck him and fuck him until just that, and the squeezing pressure of John tightening around his cock, pushed him over the edge, and Rodney came harder, longer than he had in his life. He could feel John's fingers continuing to press inside him, almost like they were forcing the come out of him, and he thought he screamed a little as his cock throbbed and throbbed inside John's ass.

He was conscious of how heavy he must be, and of John's chest heaving under his own, but Rodney couldn't quite muster the coordination necessary to push himself up; in the end, he just let himself roll off to the side and onto the floor, leaving the condom behind.

"Gee, thanks," came a sardonic voice above him.

"You're welcome."

A cloth napkin fluttered down and landed on his face. He pulled it off and used it to tenderly wipe off his dick. When he looked up, John was hanging over the side of the couch, a smile on his face.

"Hi." John's hand drifted down and patted his arm. "Come join me in the shower when you're mobile."

Between the beers and the best sex of his life, it look Rodney a little while to peel himself off the carpet. He spent the time wondering if he was just another apple to John, a Braeburn or maybe even a Golden Delicious. He felt needy and lost and terrified. Surely he was more? Surely, after all they'd been through...and John had said he was looking, but hadn't found anyone. Because Rodney wasn't available?

 _Oh, God._ He hadn't told John about Jennifer.

He found John in the shower whistling nothing recognizable and whatever it was, completely off-tune. Rodney stepped inside, and John immediately turned around, hands full of suds, and began soaping him down, a huge smile on his face.

"I broke up with Jennifer," Rodney said.

John's face went blank. He blinked away the water clinging to his lashes. "I know. Ronon called right before I came over. He wanted to check up on you. He couldn't believe you hadn't told me yet."

There was nothing accusing in John's even stare, but Rodney flinched anyway. "I didn't know how to tell you. Because-because it was all part of it—why I came down here—why I couldn't stand it when I saw you with those-those _people_ —"

John handed him the soap and then turned around to rinse off. Flicking Rodney a glance over his shoulder, he said, "Let's talk when you get out," and then stepped out of the stall.

The sound of the water changed minus one body. It was a lonelier sound, Rodney thought, and wondered why that was, or what equations could be used to describe how the change in masses altered the fall of the water and the intersections of the sound waves.

He felt too naked in just the robe, so he went into the bedroom and pulled on his favorite old T-shirt and a pair of clean boxers, then pulled the hotel's fluffy white robe on over that. He found John sitting at the table sipping the last of the beers. He was shirtless but had put his jeans back on, although how he'd managed, Rodney didn't know—he was still damp enough the hair on his chest was swirled in interesting patterns, and his nipples were hard from the chill of the air- conditioning.

His hair, of course, was sticking in every direction. Rodney looked at it and felt an impossible, absurd fondness grow in his chest; dangerous, because John was staring at him with a furrow between his eyebrows as if he were confronting a particularly difficult marine, one he were considering shipping back to Earth.

"You can't ship me Earthside," Rodney joked weakly. "We're already here."

John didn't ask him what he meant. He even smiled a little with his eyes.

But then he put down his beer. "So, how come you two crazy kids broke up?"

"You know why," Rodney said sullenly, and watched John's eyebrows crawl toward his hairline for a second before going on, "Okay, okay. It started with me not being as happy always having to 'tone it down a little, Rodney,' just at her say-so, especially when we were on Atlantis and it seemed like I should be comfortable to just act per normal, and admittedly we spent some time in San Francisco out in public, and there were a few times when I mentioned that my other friends didn't seem to have a problem interacting with me." Rodney cleared his throat. "Jennifer got a little tired of hearing my defense that you seemed to like me okay the way I was. At least, that's what she told me. I certainly don't remember saying that, since you bitch at me all the time. But it seemed like such a struggle to-to—and I started to lose interest in the—the benefits—the benefits started to be outweighed by the-by the—" Rodney shut his mouth on his incoherent ramble.

"The benefits?" And John would, of course, zero in on the most pertinent part of mess.

"The benefits."

John tilted his head.

"I couldn't fulfill my—" Rodney couldn't say it. He didn't need to, anyway, and John shouldn't make him. "Then there was a fair amount of yelling and some crying and we broke up. She left to go be with her family, and I thought I would come down here and punish you with my misery since it was all your fault, except you wouldn't cooperate."

A smile twisted the corner of John's mouth. "Sorry about that."

"Yes, well."

"We can be miserable after our vacation if you want."

"No, that's all right."

John shook his head and laughed a little. "And you came here. To Palm Springs."

"To you." As soon as he said them, Rodney tried to erase the words via mental Etch-A-Sketch, but it was too late. John's eyes were already widening.

But he was smiling a little, too. "Unbelievable." He shook his head again. "You know, I never thought you'd come around."

"So," Rodney swallowed, "you did know about me. All this time. And you never said anything."

"I couldn't, Rodney. You know why." John looked uncertain and laid a hand on his wrist. "It's a good surprise, though."

"Surprise. Sure. Act like you didn't just seduce me, big man."

A brilliant grin lit up John's face. "Seduced you, huh? Cool."

"Oh, for Pete's sake!"

"Look." John's expression went tight. "The only other time I've done this with a friend I messed up and ended up divorced. So, fair warning I'll fuck this up, too."

"Oh. Fuck what up?" Rodney asked breathlessly.

John frowned again, then leaned back and crossed his arms. " _This_. Us. Unless you were just using me as your training wheels. In which case, I'll take my toaster and go home."

"What? No! God, no." Rodney bumped the table in his haste getting up, and he saw John reach out to catch the bottle before it fell, and then Rodney tugged John up and he had his hands on John's bare shoulders—he was grabbing too hard, he could see that he was going to leave bruises, but he didn't care. "You're not my training wheels, you're my-my—what's a motorcycle that's too powerful and goes too fast and terrifies you like you think you're going to die going around the corners?"

John was starting a tentative smile. "You mean like a Ducati Monster?"

"My Ducati Monster. You're my Ducati Monster." Rodney leaned up and kissed him, desperately hard, and he could feel John's mouth opening for him; it was different from before and those sly, hot, knowing kisses of John's. This was surprise, and raw, clumsy need, and Rodney might've even nicked John's lip with his canine he was so eager to accept it, but when he pulled back there was an expression of wonder on John's face.

"Rodney," he whispered, tracing his finger over Rodney's cheekbone. "Crazy McKay." To Rodney's surprise, John's voice seemed to have developed a tremor.

"Humph." But John kissed him again, a soft kiss this time, coppery-tasting, and brushed his thumb over the corner of Rodney's mouth.

"I didn't let myself think about you, but I could've. It would've been easy to." John's voice dropped even lower. "Way too easy." John was looking at him seriously for once, head at an awkward tilt, as if he could avoid Rodney's eyes from one foot away. "You get what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Col-John."

"Hey. Call me whatever." John smiled again, another one of those gentle smiles. Rodney was in real danger of starting to believe in those smiles. "I could kill that Farantino asshole for what he did to you. And because, you know," John winced, "You've been...you know. Not happy."

"Maybe we can google him."

"Yeah." John's hand drifted down to Rodney's shoulder to give him a pat. "Probably find out he's queer and sassy living in San Francisco."

Rodney considered it for a second. "Maybe. If so, I guess," he swallowed around a sudden lump, "I guess I wouldn't hate him so much. If he finally figured it out."

John's face cracked in a brilliant smile, and he patted Rodney's cheek. "Thattaboy." He sounded so goddamned proud. "You know, they have big beds here. Really big," he said earnestly.

"You mean they're not the size of a toaster pastry?"

"Not even." John started dragging him toward the bedroom. It reminded Rodney of every other time John dragged him someplace off-world, which made him want to dig in his heels out of sheer perversity.

"But I still haven't seen anything of this wonderful vacation paradise."

John threw him a smirk. "Well, I _could_ say something about showing you paradise, baby, but that would be really tacky, Rodney."

"Very."

"Okay, then. How about you show me your ass, instead?"

Rodney really didn't have a verbal response to that.

So he just went ahead and did it.

  


_End._

  


The Ducati Monster:

  



End file.
